


tripped in the dark, you found me

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 5 Things, Bipolar Disorder, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Developing Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Misgendering, Nightmares, Trauma, alvie's coping mechanisms include oversharing and sucking dick, alvie's uncle choke and die challenge, implied past suicide attempt, off-screen violence, trans alvie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: "Ever since I shared in group about my uncle fondling me."Five moments in House and Alvie's relationship dealing with Alvie's childhood sexual abuse.





	tripped in the dark, you found me

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'runner' by kevin abstract. this is me coping and projecting into alvie.
> 
> fills the wild card in my gen prompt bingo card, which i used for 'trauma'.
> 
> enjoy!

i.

Basketball is a great distraction. He can throw the ball at the hoop, hope for the best, and try not to think about tío Julio. Mayfield is a great reminder of him, overall. He can still taste the antipsychotics making his stomach upset, and the bile in the back of his throat. 

He avoids rumination like that— talking too much, talking irreverently, talking about whatever that comes to mind. It's a mix of avoiding his trauma and the pressured speech that comes with mania. 

House approaches him. He's his roommate, and he's sold on trying to get out without cooperating. He approves of that. He's been here enough times, he knows how Nolan works, how Medina works, but he doesn't wanna take his medication still. 

Mania is better than being depressed— mania is better than being back to slowed-down, normal life. He deals with everything better when it's not slow and normal. He can rap better, he can think better. 

“Do you have third-floor privileges?” House asks. 

Alvie clicks his tongue, nods, and throws the ball. “Ever since I shared in group about my uncle fondling me.” The words leave his mouth before he thinks about them. 

His blood runs cold, and he doesn't look at House. Maybe he'll laugh, or think he's joking, or look at him like he's insane. He can feel tío Julio's breath against his neck, but he keeps throwing the ball. It goes right through the hoop —  _ good girl _ . He can hear his voice. 

“Is that true?”

He's seen maybe two emotions in House before; annoyance and thoughtfulness. He's robotic and he thinks too much and it drives Alvie mad. Another emotion is added to the list, now— shock. Not an unexpected response. 

“Yeah,” he nods curtly. He draws in a breath, tries to focus. Something else, something else. Third-floor— right, vending machines. Right. “And now I can use the third-floor vending machines. You eat sour cream and onion chips? I mean the whole point is the dipping. Sure, we save time by not adding the mix and sour cream, but you’re missing out on the—”

House interrupts him (when does he not), “I need you to break into Nolan's office.”

Something else to distract him. Thank God for Gregory House. “Commando style,” he stage-whispers. 

House's eyes gleam and his lips quirk upward to a smile. 

 

ii.

It’s two a.m., and he can’t sleep.

Before, when he first got into Mayfield, pills and IVs and stomach pumping, he would’ve gone to the nurses and asked for something to help him sleep. They’d call his shrink and he’d gotten an injection and he’d slept.

But now it’s his third time in Mayfield, and he’s halfway to a manic episode, and House is asleep in the bed in front of him. The moon makes him a little visible, his face at least. He looks less exhausted when he’s sleeping. 

“I was seven,” he says, looking at the wall rather than at House’s sleeping figure. He moves a little in his bed— maybe he’s a light sleeper. He wouldn’t know, he always tries to be quiet when House falls asleep before him.

“I was at my uncle’s place because my dad couldn’t afford rent.”

House groans and buries his face in the pillow. “Alvie,” he mumbles, but doesn’t tell him to stop speaking.

So he rattles off, knowing it does no good to him and House’s friendship. If you can even call it that. “He seemed so kind, he must be a few years older than my dad— he’s probably in his forties now. I was seven, he led me to his bedroom to show me something.”   
  
“Alvie…” House says, softer than before. Caring, almost.

Alvie swallows thickly. “I can still hear him calling me a good girl and princess and his hands on my hips and —” A sob bubbles up in his throat.

House straightens up and gets up, face twisting in pain before putting a hand on Alvie’s shoulder. He looks up, curious eyes and a warmth spreading through his body. 

“Shh,” House says. “You’re not in Puerto Rico anymore. He can’t—”   
  
The sob in his throat is replaced with a giggle, forced but sincere. “I was in New York, House.”   
  
House’s brows raise and he laughs, too. “Whoops.”   


Alvie chuckles and buries his face in House’s chest. The man seems surprised for maybe a second before wrapping his arms around him, holding him. “Sorry for dumping all of that on you.”   
  
“It’s alright,” House says, running his fingers through Alvie’s hair, a motion that makes him relax quickly. “I can tell you all about my daddy issues later on.”   
  
“Like every white man your age has daddy issues,” he says.

House snorts, then kisses the top of his head and pulls away. “Go to sleep.”   


Alvie laughs and climbs onto his bed, crawling into it. He has the most peaceful sleep he’s had in ages.

 

iii.

House cares— Alvie has noticed that. Even if he never says it out loud, he cares. And he cares a lot. He falls asleep on the couch and wakes up tangled in a blanket he didn’t put there. House memorizes his takeout order three days in, and they play Nerf football, and sometimes they share their traumas with each other.

Alvie gets a call on his fourth day with House. He’s still hiding from immigration, and they had found Ms. X’s husband, and everything was going alright. They’re eating dinner, and it’s eight p.m. or so.

He looks at his phone, answers, and puts it to his ear. House watches curiously.

“Dad?” he says softly.

“Mijo, how are you? You told me something about immigration, are you alright? Are you at Jersey? How’s the old—” He hiccups, and Alvie feels sick. “How’s the old neighborhood?”   
  
“I’m alright,” he replies tensely. “And yeah, I’m dealing with the immigration thing, Jersey’s alright, I’m at an old friend’s house.” He pauses. “You know the guy I mentioned I was roomed with?”   
  
“Last time you went to that madhouse, Mayfield? Gregory House?”

“Yeah, dad.”   
  
“Why are you with him? You said he —” Another hiccup. 

Alvie grips on the phone tightly. “Dad, are you drunk?”   
  
“No, am not, I’m fine, mijo!”   


“Dad…”

Tears well up in his eyes as his father rambles aimlessly about how much he misses Alvie’s mother, and how much he wishes Alvie wasn’t sick just like her, and how much he wishes  _ he  _ hadn’t ruined his perfectly fine son. 

Alvie mumbles nonsense and hangs up. His father is far away, in Arizona with his cousin, but he can smell the whiskey on him. He’s a little nauseous.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Alvie mumbles, face contorted in distaste.

House looks at him. “You sure?”   
  
He swallows and makes a noise. House hands him the Orange Fanta he bought just for him and he takes a sip. 

“Drown your daddy issues-inspired sorrows.”   


Alvie manages to muster up a smile. “You do a lot of that, I bet.”

House hums in vague agreement. “Your meds interact badly with alcohol?”   
  
“Yep. Have never gotten drunk.”   
  
“Now that’s unfortunate.” He’s about to argue that he doesn’t wanna get drunk, but House beats him to the punch; “What about weed?”   
  
Alvie picks at a loose thread in his jeans. “I’ve tried it before. Makes everything slow down, but it makes me forget about him— ‘bout my uncle.”   
  
“I’ll get some, then. I can use my chronic pain as an excuse— it’s legal in Jersey if it’s medical.”   
  
His smile widens and he looks up at House. It feels natural to give him a peck on the lips and then pull away. “Thanks.”   
  
“No problem, Alvarez.” He reaches out and squeezes his shoulder before going back to his food. “Now be a functional human being and eat some Chinese takeout.”   


He manages to giggle. “On it.”   


 

iv.

Alvie talks about his uncle, mostly late at night. He stays with House both because he’s grown attached to him and because he doesn’t want to see his father, so he doesn’t leave to Arizona.

Sometimes he grows worried that his rambling annoys House, but when he tells him it helps him focus it’s like the floodgates of infodumping have opened, and they aren’t closing any time soon. He rambles about everything he can think about, especially after the sun sets. He talks about the history of rap and hip-hop, he talks about Puerto Rico, he talks about Spanish linguistics and how messy his family is.

House listens— he  _ actually _ listens. He brings up something Alvie talked about the next day, and Alvie’s eyes gleam with happiness.

Sometimes, his topic of the night is his extensive trauma.   
  
House’s face scrunches up when Alvie describes his uncle in the physical aspect. He talks about how he’s more white looking than his mom— his hazel eyes, his straight hair, his pale skin, how frail he tended to seem.

He attributes House seeming upset to maybe something about the work he was doing as he talked.

After a few minutes, House asks, “Do you happen to have a photo of him?”   
  
“I think so,” he says, tilting his head. “I just keep it with me, it’s from the last time I saw him.” Alvie looks through his backpack and hands it to House. House’s brows furrow even more, and he looks like he’s planning something.   


“What’s his name again?”   
  
Alvie squints. “Julio Alvarez.”   
  
“Okay.” A beat. House starts typing on his laptop again. “Do you know where he lives now?”   
  
“Last time my dad told me about him he was here in Jersey.”   
  
House draws in a breath. “Okay.”   


Alvie wonders why House has asked so many questions but doesn’t ask, and simply expects it to be another of House’s various eccentricities. 

A few days later, Alvie is even more fidgety than usual. House is late, and he wonders if he’s getting drunk. He knows the man gets drunk quite a bit, but he doesn’t know if he can call him an alcoholic. Probably not— he’s not like his dad.

House comes back home about an hour later than usual, walking normally (as in sober) and clutching his cane tightly. He plops down on the couch and Alvie immediately rushes toward him. 

“House! What happened?”   
  
House shows him his knuckles. They’re bloody.    


“House!” he exclaims. “What—?”   
  
He interrupts him, “Julio Alvarez is a frequent patron of the bar I usually go to.”   


The penny drops. Alvie draws in a breath before drawing House for a kiss, messy and needy, and most importantly, thankful and grateful. “You beat my abuser up?” Alvie asks, eyes gleaming. His uncle has never gotten justice, even as he told his father, as it’d cause too much trouble to their family.

“Yeah,” House replies, kissing him on the lips briefly. “Just in case, I talked to him before I threw the first punch.” He drums his fingers on the couch. “He said he was forty-seven, which matches up with you saying he must be in his forties, he said he had a numerous family from Puerto Rico, and that his sister died when her ‘daughter’—” His face scrunches up at the misgendering, “was four.”   
  
Alvie breathes and holds onto House, kissing him again and again.

“You didn’t have to.”   
  
“I wanted to.”   
  
“Were you looking for an excuse to beat someone up?”   
  
House groans and kisses him, pulling him closer by his hair. “Alvie,” he starts, voice mildly annoyed. “I  _ care  _ about you. I beat him up because he made your life hell.”   


“Oh,” Alvie says softly, his heart fluttering in his chest.

House groans. “You’re an idiot.”   
  
“I’m your idiot.”   
  
“I sure hope so.”   
  
Alvie leans in and kisses him again, sitting on his lap. 

“Well, can I thank you?”   
  
House settles his hands on his hips. “You can always thank me, baby.”   
  
Alvie doesn’t reply, just simply grinds down on him.

 

v.

Alvie wakes up drowning in his own sweat.

He recently came down from a manic episode after forgetting his meds— he was blabbering about sucking House off to deal with his intrusive thoughts and House decided to sedate him. Now he’s back to normal, but that means the occasional nightmare.

He hears his uncle’s voice, calling him his deadname, calling him such a perfect girl, princess, good girl. He’s sick to the bone and he falls further down into the hole that is depression, that is trauma— that is his sickness.

His uncle smashes his vial of testosterone into a thousand tiny pieces and he bleeds onto the shards of glass. His uncle calls him a freak, kisses him, places a hand on his hip. It’s hazy and sick and twisted and he wakes up crying.

He takes a second to realize he’s got someone else in the bed, that he’s clinging onto none else than Gregory House for dear life. He sobs into House’s chest, digging his nails into his shoulders, and he takes little time to wake up.

“Nightmare?” he asks, voice charged with sleep. He wraps his arms around Alvie’s waist, pulls him just a little closer. Alvie eats it up; he lays more still and quieter than ever, no words leaving his mouth. House tangles his fingers on his hair and pets him.

“Yeah,” he manages to whisper.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” House says matter-of-factly. “I made sure to let him know that.”   
  
Alvie manages a giggle and kisses House’s collarbone. He clings onto him, legs tangled together, House’s steady heartbeat calming his own. He’s a mess, and House is a mess too— daddy issues and past addiction and assholery and everything. He’s a mess, and he’s trying so, so hard, and Alvie’s feelings for him bloom every time something so soft happens between them.

“Thank you,” Alvie whispers when his heart goes steady and slow, nice and easy. 

House kisses his forehead. “No problem. Go back to sleep, now, I need my beauty sleep.”   
  
“You’re already beautiful,” Alvie says without missing a beat.

House snorts. “You’re gay.”   
  
“We’re dating, House. I think I gotta be.”   
  
“My bisexual self has to disagree.”   
  
Alvie groans, buries his face on the crook of House’s neck, and manages a soft laugh. He wraps his arms around him, keeps himself as close as he can be.

“Good night.”   
  
“Good night,” House says. Alvie goes quiet and still. House whispers, almost as if he thinks Alvie’s asleep now, “I’ll be right here.”   


“I heard that,” Alvie mumbles sleepily.

House grumbles. “I know.”

Alvie smiles into House’s shoulder and manages to drift off in his arms.


End file.
